


And Try to Live a Quiet Life

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [31]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, F/F, Flashbacks, M/M, People being mean to each other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Projecting their own insecurities onto others, Therapy, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:37:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going out for a smoke,” Louis said, not inviting Liam to join him. He exited the house via the side door, tapping out a fag before clicking his lighter. The wind whipped at him lightly, flicking his hair around, his fringe falling into his eyes. Acrid smoke coated his tongue, and he stomped his feet, hoping to break apart the clenched darkness in his chest.</p><p>He felt so, so small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Try to Live a Quiet Life

**Author's Note:**

> I AM BACK! Thanks for waiting so patiently and for never letting me go.  
> xx
> 
> As per lately, title is from Margot and the Nuclear So and So's song Dress Me Like a Clown.

Louis let Liam stay the day and evening and night, figuring he could sacrifice that small chunk of his time for Liam. Considering Liam gave Louis whole gut-wrenching portions of himself, big pieces and small bits, while Louis could never manage to give him anything... Nothing real, anyway.

Louis didn’t know what to make of Liam just _existing_ in his life, living their day like they were domestic and loved-up. Liam cooked dinner for the both of them and Lottie, partly because Liam was uncomfortable with the idea of their cook making him food but also because he kind of actually knew what he was doing in the kitchen. Sometimes.

Louis’ other siblings were otherwise occupied, with his parents on one of the date nights that inevitably served as a precursor to a darling _we’re pregnant, again!_ announcement. Louis was ambivalent for them.

They went swimming after dinner, him and Liam, fucking about like there wasn’t anything to worry about, really. It was a departure from everything Louis was used to, the ease with which they interacted with one another. Somehow, for some reason, he didn’t feel on the edge of abject panic for one entire night.

They watched a movie once the sun set, the house quiet and expansive around them. Louis consumed most of a bottle of wine while Liam called him a priss, drinking beer after beer to prove his masculinity. Seemingly. Then they retreated to Louis’ room quietly, traipsing through the nearly empty house. They fucked languidly, Liam opening up around Louis, a careful smile on his face. 

Afterward, Louis had fingerprint bruises on his shoulders from the intensity of Liam’s grip.

***  
The next day, Louis forced Liam to at least make a pretense of fixing breakfast, not a full English but still toast and eggs. The house was still and quiet, like the night before, and the domestic idiocy continued.

“You’re in fine form today,” Louis mused, tucking one leg beneath himself on his chair.

“All right,” Liam replied with a shrug, moving a large forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Eat your food. You need the protein.”

“Protein.”

“If you’re going to keep up the exercise routine, you need to increase your protein.”

“I have no intention of exercising ever again.”

“Drama queen.”

“And yet here we are, the two of us. You putting up with little old me.”

“Self-deprecation again. Cute.”

“Cute as hell, that’s me. Hell is also where I was conceived. I set up a nice little timeshare there a few years back, camp out a few times a year. It’s cozy.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yep.”

Liam fluttered his substantial eyelashes at Louis, giving him an impressive hang-dog puppy look. Then he raised one brow.

“No,” Louis snapped, moving to collect their empty plates. “I’m not _your_ idiot.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t do the territorial thing, it’s not sexy. Jealousy’s fucking obnoxious. I don’t need any more bullshit right now.”

“Fine, guess that’s fair,” Liam replied, heaving a sigh.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” Louis said, not inviting Liam to join him. He exited the house via the side door, tapping out a fag before clicking his lighter. The wind whipped at him lightly, flicking his hair around, his fringe falling into his eyes. Acrid smoke coated his tongue, and he stomped his feet, hoping to break apart the clenched darkness in his chest.

He felt so, so small.

***

The next hour was quiet, Liam and Louis piled on top of one another in front of the television, although both of them ignored the screen in favour of their mobiles. Louis felt leashed to technology inexplicably, not actually accomplishing anything or learning anything or doing—anything. He just scrolled through pictures other people had posted, read words that other people had written. What was he to them? What were they to him? Heaving a sigh, he locked the screen and dropped his mobile onto his face unceremoniously.

“What is even happening in this film?” Liam muttered, arching his back into a stretch.

“I dunno, but the mother did it.”

“Hey!”

“Not like you were paying attention to the plot anyhow!”

“This is ridiculous.” Liam grabbed at the remote and flicked through the endless channels as Louis’ eyes fluttered shut. 

He curled in on himself, the soft carpet pillowing his cheek. “I am filled with ennui.”

“You’re a pretentious dick, and if you keep acting like a bitch-baby I’ll make you do high-knees until you puke.”

“Shan’t.”

Louis could feel Liam turn sideways, presumably to look at him, but he kept his eyes shut. He kept them shut, that is, until he felt hard prods into his sides, startling out a shock of breath, half-laugh, half-exhalation.

“Don’t!” he demanded, more breath knocked out of his lungs as Liam lunged in to press harder at his sides, not so much tickling as aggressively poking him until he laughed. “Stop it, I’ll murder you in your sleep, fucking hell—” He cackled, body rigid and uncomfortable, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You are the worst, I swear to god.” 

Liam shrugged and ceased his attack, falling onto his back. “How’s the ennui?”

“Replaced by righteous fury, thanks for asking.”

“Hey, Louis?”

Louis hummed.

“What’s ennui?”

“Oh my god.” Louis rolled over to tackle Liam, straddling him so he could lightly slap his chest without force. “Stagnation, boredom, lack of purpose, existential angst,” he said, punctuating each word with a slap.

Liam laughed, pretending to cower. “I like this new education method, very hands-on. Keeps me motivated.”

Louis tightened his legs around Liam’s hips. “Might get excited about exercise if you agreed to dick me after. Might love it, even.”

“Something to remember,” Liam added, biting his lip.

***  
Harry texted Louis in the early afternoon, after a swim and a strangely subdued lunch. He asked about Louis’ health, and they both knew it was his way of checking that Louis hadn’t yet drowned himself in the bath. Louis pursed his lips, making a split-second decision before darting forward to bite Liam’s bare neck.

“Hey, what the fuck!” Liam slapped him harshly across the arm before shoving at him.

“Get dressed.”

“I am dressed.” He looked down at his trackies and shirt, both of which belonged to Louis.

“Fine, but we’re leaving the house.”

Liam sighed. “Do I have to impress anyone?”

“Me, you jagoff.”

“So no, then.” Liam smirked, getting of the couch languidly. He stretched so that a thick stripe of his midriff showed, his smirk widening. Louis rolled his eyes and stayed seated.

“Whatever.” His mobile buzzed, flashing an address across the screen. He thumbed open his browser and perused it while Liam stared at him.

“If I’m gonna be at your beck and call, I’d really like to get a move on.”

“You’ll do as I say or you’ll do nothing at all,” Louis snapped, dropping his mobile onto the carpet.

“Fuck you.”

Louis smiled sweetly. “Maybe later. If you’re good.”

Liam’s nostrils flared and he lunged forward, shoving his way between Louis’ legs, pressing his large hands against Louis’ shoulders so he was pinned to the back of the sofa. He thumbed down Louis’ jaw and met his gaze, trapping Louis with his eyes and hands both. “Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what?” Louis asks in a whisper, face heating up.

“Act like you’re above me.”

Louis blinked slowly, casting Liam a dark glance. “About fucking time,” he muttered, kicking one leg out to kick Liam’s arse cheek. He only half-missed, and Liam’s grip tightened on his shoulders. “Come here.” He tipped his head back slightly, waiting.

Liam forced Louis’ legs wider and leaned in, his lips ghosting against Louis’ skin. “And what?” he murmured, looking down at Louis’ lips, smiling slowly. “Come here and what?”

Louis blinked and said nothing. He waited. He waited, and his brain filled with white noise and static as his cheeks went hot.

“Yeah.” Liam nodded and retreated. “That’s what I thought.” Then he fisted at the fabric of Louis’ shirt and yanked him forward, kissing him soundly, just the once. Just once.

***

Louis parked his Benz outside a not-entirely-decrepit-looking off-license, which stood across from Harry and Gemma’s building. “Grab that shit, yeah?” he asked, nodding to the plastic bags full of takeaway set by Liam’s feet.

“Yeah, yeah.” Liam stepped out of the car and slammed the door perhaps harder than necessary. The pair of them walked up to the third floor, Liam lugging all the takeaway without complaint. Louis knocked on the door to Gemma and Harry’s flat before his gaze caught on some chipping paint by on the jamb. And he knew he was (and continued to be) an arsehole, just for noticing.

Gemma wrenched the door open and sighed, beckoning Liam and Louis inside without a word. She pointed to a room just beside the door and waved them off.

“Thanks?” Louis called, watching her trudge down the corridor.

“Whatever!”

He moved away from the door, Liam following—but they both stopped when they spotted Zayn and Harry on the couch, Zayn upright with Harry’s head in his lap. “Ain’t this a comfy scene,” Liam snapped, moving around Louis to put the takeaway on the coffee table.

“Come cuddle?” Harry asked, voice syrupy and slow.

“Put a movie in and we might,” Louis agreed, taking Styrofoam containers out of their carryalls without ceremony. “We brought Chinese, since we’re barging in all uninvited like.”

“I did invite you,” Harry reasoned, his voice still sounding drugged-out. “Wouldn’t have sent you my address otherwise.”

“You’ve never been here?” Zayn murmured, casting Louis a look, eyes narrowed.

“No.” And it wasn’t a shitty flat, as such, just small. It was cozy and tended to, and Louis refused to comment on it. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he looked at Zayn, finally. “No, I haven’t.”

“Oh.” Zayn’s comment might have meant nothing if he hadn’t also shot Louis a sharp smirk along with it. Louis handed Liam some sweet-and-sour pork before flicking Zayn’s forehead, dropping a kiss to Harry’s temple.

“Don’t be an arse,” Harry murmured, eyes falling shut as Louis’ lips hit his skin. “I deserve better.”

Zayn rolled his eyes once but hummed in seeming agreement, accepting an offered container of food from Liam. “Ta, bebs.”

“It’s sesame chicken, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Louis blinked, shunting a container of pork across the table. “Haz? What’ll you have?”

“Anything spicy, please,” he requested, voice liquid as he swung his legs off the sofa, sitting up.

Louis handed him some Great Wall beef and sat down hard on the floor. He felt inexplicably overwhelmed, beset with emotion, when all he was doing was eating a bit of Chinese takeaway. It probably wasn’t even _good_ takeaway, and here he was getting weepy over it.

“Thanks, lads,” he muttered, grabbing the remote off the floor to flick the telly on.

“Moron,” Zayn sighed, rolling his eyes like old habits.

***

“Lou? Spring roll, bebs?” Zayn slurred, only half-awake as usual. He dropped the container onto Louis’ chest and stretched, falling off the couch and onto the floor.

“Might be able to fit one in,” he agreed slowly, picking at the lukewarm food.

“You know,” Harry said, eyes shut, his body curled into a ball, “I’d’ve cooked.”

“Cooked?”

“Christ,” Zayn muttered from his spot on the floor. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know he’s applying to culinary.”

“Shut up,” Louis snapped, chucking a balled-up napkin at Zayn’s face.

“Lou,” Harry muttered, still curled up tight. “I like cooking.”

“I’ve gathered.”

“You c’n be my guinea pig. For new recipes and that.”

“So you can force-feed me tripe? Pass.”

“No, really! I’m really good.”

“He is,” Zayn agreed quietly, “not that he needs me to defend him or something.”

“And I am going. To culinary school, I mean,” Harry added.

“Never doubted the veracity of the statement,” Louis said shortly. “Not at all.”

“Christ, what is wrong with you lately?” Zayn snapped, hazel eyes bright and angry, his head snapping toward Louis. “It’s like someone shat directly on your face or something. All he’s said is that he’d’ve cooked for you, which is, if I recall correctly, a nice gesture to perform for one’s friends. And that he’d like to go to culinary school. He’s not joining up for a suicide mission in the Middle East or looking to smoke crack. Stop acting like you’re questioning his life choices.”

“Of course I’m questioning his life choices. When I walked in here, he had his head in your lap,” Louis replied coolly.

“Jealousy’s ugly on you, Lou,” Zayn snapped in return, closing his jaw with an audible _clack._

“I’m not fucking jealous!” 

His gaze immediately shunted to Harry, whose face went closed-off and dark, almost murderous. “Tell me how you really feel,” Harry said, his voice flat.

“That’s not—”

Zayn snorted, interrupting him. “You can’t keep people from interacting with one another. This isn’t some sort of pretty little collection you can take for granted, you know. You can’t just pick and choose which one of us you want in a given day and expect us to cater to your fucking whims.” He tipped his head sideways, giving Harry a soft glance.

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled loudly.

“No,” Louis breathed. “That’s not it at all. Haz, no.”

“Kind of feels like it sometimes,” Harry whispered, face downturned. “Like sometimes you only deign to hang out with me because I’m next in the rotation.”

“Guys, that’s not exactly fair,” Liam interjected.

“That’s what you really think of me?” The words were like marbles caught in Louis’ throat, and he barely got them out.

“I said that’s what it feels like sometimes,” Harry tacked on, brows furrowing so he looked, at least, a bit guilty.

“It’s not like he forced anyone to do anything,” Liam pointed out, inflection rising as though he were angry on Louis’ behalf. “Why the fuck are you ganging up on him? Keep in mind he recently saved your arses from getting _drunk and disorderly penalty notices,_ all right? After literally watching a dude’s body explode on the pavement. So back the fuck off if he’s a little distant sometimes, or maybe a little irritable, Christ.”

Louis stared at Liam and bit the inside of his lip until he tasted the hot tang of blood. Gagging, he stumbled to his feet, rushing into the kitchen to heave into the sink. 

He continued to wretch for upwards of two minutes, until nothing was left but bile. Only once he caught his breath did he realize that someone was rubbing his back and murmuring quietly.

Liam reached around him to turn the sink on, splashing cool water over Louis’ face. “You’re all right, mate, get it all out.”

“No-nothing left to get out,” Louis garbled, spitting into the basin.

“Yeah, think you got all your food up for the past twenty-four hours.” Liam moved Louis’ fringe out of his face and splashed more water onto his skin.

“It was the blood,” Louis explained, shutting his eyes.

“Oh.”

“I could taste it.”

He heard a choked-off moan from across the kitchen, and he spun on his heel to catch sight of Harry tucked across Zayn’s chest, shoulders heaving up and down. Zayn shot Louis a panicked glance, face crumbling into a look of guilt. “Sorry, sorry, we’ll just—” he stuttered, trying to drag Harry from the room.

“I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” Louis made a beeline for the front door of the Styles’ flat, rushing out without his jacket or a backward glance.

***

Louis dashed across the street to the off-license, where he snatched up a litre-sized bottle of vodka and paid for it with trembling fingers. Punching the buttons on the chip-and-pin nearly gave him a panic attack, and he had no intention of driving with an open bottle clutched in one hand. He exited the shop and began walking, twisting off the bottle cap as he did so.

He stopped after eight blocks and sat down on the bench at a bus stop, pulling his legs up so he could sit cross-legged. He took another pull from the bottle, glad he’d left it in the brown paper sack. It made him feel like a vagrant.

The thought that he resembled a hobo made him snort aloud and look down at the Rolex on his left wrist. It was going on half-four, and Louis was on his way to warm and drunk. He heaved himself to his feet, necking at the bottle once more before putting the top back on it.

He continued walking and caught the tube, cradling the bottle like a newborn. He mostly knew better than to drink on the underground but also didn’t entirely care. So he waited until the carriage was at least half-empty before taking a short pull from the bottle. He stumbled out at Leicester Square, into Trafalgar, blinking into the weak afternoon light.

He stopped into a kebab shop and asked for a plastic bag, into which he promptly stuck his vodka. Then he headed back outside, as though with a purpose, which—

He squinted, ducking his head as he moved out of the shop, toward the National Portrait Gallery, and before he truly realized it, he was inside. Clutching a bottle of vodka. Drunk.

 

He was pretty sure the others milling about the gallery had no clue, but with the way the security team eyed him up, Louis suspected they’d seen a few drunks wander in during their shifts. He merely gave them wan smiles and continued walking around blearily. So, he was fine.

 

***

He startled awake to a slap in the face, groaning as he sat up and fell off a wooden bench onto the floor.

“Get the fuck up,” Lottie growled, kicking his shin with one stacked wedge heel. He wriggled for a moment on the floor. “We need to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Seriously.” She bent down and yanked Louis to his feet, mouth pinched into a thin line. “Right the fuck now.”

“Here?” He weaved slightly, barely stable upright.

She leaned in further, hissing into his ear. “Clear your face of the drunken stupor, all right? It’s the only hope we have of you not getting arrested.”

Louis nodded and looked down at his feet, noting that he was inexplicably wearing only one sock but two shoes. Just as well; he hated socks. He blinked at his surroundings owlishly, disliking the intensity of the light in the room around him. He wondered exactly where the room was as he watched Lottie turn to two security guards. Everyone looked angry, Louis noted, before he tuned in to the conversation. Everything was so, so bright.

“I’m sorry, he hasn’t always been like this, you see. Got in a bad car wreck half a year ago and is still suffering some residual head trauma. Gets confused easy, wanders off. You know how it is. Docile as a lamb, but really just this side of normal. It’s been hard on all of us. We’re doing our best.”

Louis supposed that made sense, and it would explain his current state. Although, funny, he didn’t really remember any head trauma or anything, just a broken bone and lots of yelling.

He kept his mouth shut as Lottie worked her magic, flashing easy smiles and reassuring the guards that, no, Louis would not be left alone again to wander the streets of London.

She grabbed his hand and nearly frog-marched him out of the gallery and into Trafalgar Square, where his fuzzy brain finally mashed everything together.

“Think ‘m’drunk,” he slurred, slowing to a halt.

Lottie rounded on him. “You most certainly are, which still does nothing to explain why you passed the fuck out in the National Portrait Gallery. I’m not one to pull this card, but, Christ, Louis, you were in _public._ Someone could have seen you. Someone important. Hell, someone could have _smelled_ the fumes coming off you. Lit a match and watched the whole room go up in flames, with the amount of alcohol in your system.”

“’M _drunk,”_ he repeated, louder this time.

“Shut up. Yes, you’re drunk. Can you manage to tell me _why?”_

“Take me home.”

***

Lottie threatened to kill Louis if he made her carry him into the house after she parked (her own car, Louis having left his outside Harry’s shitty tip of a flat—and God, he really was an arsehole to his friends), so Louis stumbled out of the vehicle and only tripped once before making it inside. Lottie shoved him toward the back of the house, demanding that they continue the conversation while he showered. “And I don’t trust you with stairs,” she added, opening the door to the ground-level full bath.

“Shouldn’t trust me with anything,” he mumbled, pulling his shirt off over his head. “How’d you find me, anyway?” he added, sitting down hard on the mat beside the bathtub. He tucked his knees up and curled his arms around himself.

“You listed me in your mobile’s ICE. I suppose passing out in a London landmark qualifies as an emergency.”

“Ah.”

“Plus Harry texted seven times and called fifteen. I stopped answering after his second call, he was too frantic. I couldn’t make out any actual words. Answered Liam’s call, though, he was a bit more—reasonable.” She shook her head, leaning into the tub to start the water. “You. You’re a fucking mess.”

“Not my fault this time. Mostly.”

“Okay.” She swirled the water with her hand.

“Flashback. People being mean to me. Blood in my mouth. Everything tasted like blood.”

“What happened?”

“Was at Harry’s, arguing, etc., people being cocks,” he said slowly, screwing shut his eyes hard, trying to remember.

“That does sound like your friend group, yes.”

“Thought I took them for granted or was dicking them around, I think. Gist of it anyway. Liam stood up for me, but he mentioned the—jumper, the guy. Graphic detail. Bit myself, blood, chucked up in the sink. Ran away. I ran away from them, Lots. Got drunk alone. Got on the tube. Everything’s grey. Grey and tastes like blood.”

She was silent for a long time. Louis thought he deserved that. 

“Stay there, yeah? I’m gonna go get mum.”

“I don’t really have a head injury, do I?”

“No, Lou. That was a lie I told them so they’d let you go.”

“Let me go?”

“Yeah. They let you leave. I’m gonna go get mum, hold still for a tick, yeah? Don’t move.”

“Kay.”

His eyes still shut, he heard her shuffle out of the room. He struggled out of his jeans, shucking them without opening his eyes, before returning to a tight-little ball. He heard his mum enter the room in a rush, felt her kneel down beside him.

“Sweetheart.”

“Hi mum,” he whispered, cracking one eye open. “’M’a little drunk, mum. Sorry.”

“Lottie said you were sad.”

“Yeah,” he drawled out, pitching forward to fall into her embrace.

“Oh, boo.” She cuddled him up, running her fingers through his hair so, so gently. “Little love, I’m here. You’re safe here.”

“Kay.”

“Can you stand up, boo? Get into the bath? I can help.” She levered him up carefully, using her shoulder to heft him. “Stand a mo. There’s a boy.” She gently yanked down his boxers and he didn’t have the brain-space to feel embarrassed or idiotic that here he was, eighteen, naked, in front of his goddamn mother.

She led him to the ledge of the tub, where he opened his eyes fully. “In you get?” she asked, turning the handle off, stilling the water.

“Why you here?” he asked, stepping in gingerly with one foot. He hissed at the heat.

“What—what do you mean?”

“’M’jus drunk. Why are you here?”

“Baby, you know you’re not _just_ drunk.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He slowly sat down into the water, moving back to set his body flush with the porcelain of the tub.

“What’s happening, my love?”

“I’m sad, mum. It’s all grey, and blood.” He sighed, dipping his shoulders down below the warm water before flicking his fingers at his own head. “In here, all in here.” He tapped at his temple for emphasis. “Bad news.”

“What’s happening, love? What’s going on?”

“He died!”

“Yes, love. But right now. What’s going on?”

“I just see it over and over again, and I can’t make it stop, and I worry I’ll do that.”

“What?”

“Jump off too.”

She sniffed in slowly. “Do you want to do that?”

“Sometimes. But I’m not going to do it. Someone would see it and someone would find me and you’d be hurt and upset and I can’t do that, not gonna do that. So I want to but I won’t do, but sometimes I want to. And I’m worried I will.”

“Boo.”

“But I won’t. Can’t.”

“We’ll talk about this later, my love. You’re in a state. But, but you can come to me, when you want to. To do something. If you’re sad. Any time at all.”

“You’re so busy. The girls,” Louis tried, tipping his head back against the tub’s rim. “Your life.”

“Lou.”

“But wait.” He whipped his head forward, sitting up too quickly. “I thought you didn’t know I was in therapy.”

“What?”

“He said you shouldn’t know, that it would upset you and I should just work. I think. I forget. It was awhile ago.”

“Love, I knew. Of course I knew, I’m your mother. You thought I didn’t know?”

“He said so.”

“Okay, love. Let’s talk more about this tomorrow. Now you should just take a bath, I think?”

“Cozy, this.”

“Let mum wash your hair?”

“Hi, mum. ‘M’sleepy.”

“Let me wash your hair first, then you can sleep, boo.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

***  
Louis jerked awake in his own bed, in his own clothes, his mouth cotton-thick and dry. “Fuck.” He collapsed back against his pillows for an hour or two, wishing someone had thought to grab him some water, until he heard a knock.

“Lou bear,” his mother said quietly, “your boys are here. You and I need to talk later, but for now, do you—do you want them to come in?”

“Hug first.”

She laughed out on an exhale like she was shocked and walked over to kiss his forehead repeatedly. Then she wrapped him up in a hug, cupping his shoulders and neck. “Love you, boo.”

“No.”

She pulled away sharply, making Louis open his eyes. Somehow she had that power over him, the power to make him look at—things. Fuck, he was hungover.

“I do love you.”

“Don’t deserve it.”

She sighed loudly, sitting onto the edge of his mattress. “I’ll always love you, and I always have. It’s not negotiable.”

“Dad fucked off, why wouldn’t everyone else?”

“He—“ she paused, pursing her lips. “He was scared. Not an excuse, of course, but—”

“I’m scared too.”

“Of what, love?” she whispered.

“Everything.” And that felt truer than anything, truer than his dry mouth and aching head, truer than the twinge in his back from restless sleep. It felt truer than the fact that he was slowly ruining himself, and that something had to change.

**Author's Note:**

> DUDE this is not at ALL how I had planned for this chapter to go, but this story ALWAYS manages to get away from me. DUMB boys projecting their OWN DUMB INSECURITIES ONTO EACH OTHER is what I am here for.
> 
> And YES I actually had Zayn say the “spring roll, bebs?” thing from the XFactor because I am a DISASTER.
> 
> Comment, kudos, rip me a new one, etc.  
> tumblr: musiclily


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